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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602189">A Bump in the Road</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/stories-telling'>stories-telling (Silverblind)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Injury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:14:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,547</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/stories-telling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacob always rushes headlong into trouble; sometimes, trouble rushes back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jacob Frye/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Bump in the Road</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on my tumblr blog stories-telling</p><p>Original request text: "If your requests are open, could I have a Jacob Frye x F!OC. A bit of after mission fluff, she works on his and Evie’s train. He got injured during his mission and she reprimands him for it. Thank you 😊❤️"</p><p>Since I don't have an AC OC, I just wrote 3rd person without a name. Hope it doesn't turn out too weird.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It's always the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a crash from the back of the train, then a loud curse and a few heavy footsteps that she can hear even from a few cars away. She sighs, but doesn't look up from her book. Jacob had a habit of making his entrances known. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she sits, and waits for him to burst through the door and crash his way through the train, as he always does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waits, and waits, but he doesn’t come, and after a few minutes she lowers her book, brows furrowing as she listens; nothing. Silence reigns over the train, broken only by the familiar thrum of the engine and the clanking of metal parts. She sets her book aside as she stands, half-torn between worry and annoyance, hesitating for a second more before making her way toward the back of the train, feeling her anxiety rise as she moves from car to car. It's late enough that the train is deserted, and her eyes sweep over every darkened corner of the cars she passes through, looking for the slightest sign of Jacob - </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he'd left again already, she tells herself as she comes to stand at the threshold of the last wagon. Perhaps he'd only come for a piece of equipment, or a note left on the intel board, or maybe -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gasps as the sound of breaking glass shatters through the silence, startling her, followed by a voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bloody… - Shit!"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are barely above a hiss, yet they seem as loud as thunder in the otherwise silent train's air. She takes a few quick steps inside the armory and finally finds Jacob, tucked away at the back of the car, keeping one hand pressed to his ribs while he rummages through a cupboard with the other, the glass of a smashed vial crunching beneath his boots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where's that damned…" he starts, before he seems to realise her presence, slowly lowering his arm before turning around. He’s smiling, but the tense lines of his shoulders give him away - </span>
  <em>
    <span>something is wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t expect to see anyone up at this hour,” he says, not quite managing to hide the strain in his voice as he unconsciously presses his palm harder against his side - she would have missed his wince had she not been watching him so closely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Frye? Are you hurt?” she asks, stepping forward, and she sees him open his mouth to answer, a lie dancing on the tip of his tongue for a moment before he thinks better of it, lowering his head, his smile faltering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a scratch,” he says. “No need to worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite her concern, she can’t help arching her brow at him, catching his gaze briefly as it flits around the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Show me,” she says as she comes to stand next to him, nudging him aside so that she can reach the cupboard he’d been rifling through, pulling out what he had surely been looking for - a small bottle of disinfectant, a few bandages, and a needle and thread, placing them on the table next to her before turning to look at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing,” he replies drily, stepping away. He almost looks like a cornered animal, curled in on himself and ready to bolt. “I don’t - “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She reaches out, touching his arm, and he cuts himself off as he stiffens, seemingly almost ready to pull away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ Mr. Frye - Jacob,” she says, softly. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer, but she feels him relax slightly beneath her palm, and he allows her to step closer, coming to stand in front of him as he leans against the table behind him. She feels his eyes on her as his hand drops away from where he had been keeping it pressed against his ribs, revealing his wound - a long, deep gash that runs down from just under his arm to a little below his waist, staining his clothes an angry red. She frowns at the sight, but says nothing, simply reaching up to his shoulders to push his heavy coat off him; he shrugs it off with a smothered groan, looking up at the ceiling as she probes at the wound, a slight hitch in his breath the only sign of his discomfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take off your waistcoat,” she says eventually, stepping away and looking up to meet his eyes - they are still turned upwards, away from her, the set of his jaw betraying his gritted teeth as he takes short, shallow breaths. “And your shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s certain that, had the circumstances been any different, she might have received a glib comment in return (it would not have been the first time); but, as it is, he obeys without a word, allowing himself a few pained grunts as his movements jostle the wound. She steps away, busying herself with the supplies she’d pulled from the cupboard as she listens to the rustling of fabric, unable to help a few covert looks in his direction. It is strange to see the usually jovial, nonchalant man so grim and silent - though she supposes being slashed at with a blade would get anyone into a less than stellar mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns back to him after a few moments, coming to stand in front of him again with a rag soaked in antiseptic and her needle and thread. She examines the wound again, but also can't help but notice the smattering of bruises and scrapes that litter his chest, shoulders and arms - something twists within her, in the pit of her stomach, and she wishes that she could help him more than the meager help she sometimes provides. She looks up to meet his eyes, and he looks at her this time, his eyes somehow softer than they’d been just a few minutes ago - she’s not quite sure what to make of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t move,” she says instead of allowing herself to think about it, and she presses the cloth to his wound. He hisses through his teeth, his hand instinctively shooting up to her shoulder as if to push her away, but he catches himself, and she almost jumps when she feels it at her waist instead, where it lingers for half a heartbeat before he brings it back down to his side. She tries to ignore the way the warmth of his palm lingers on her skin even through the layers of her clothes, instead focusing on dabbing at the wound a few more times before she puts it aside to start on the stitches. There’s no more protest from him, and he sits still as she stitches the wound shut with rapid, precise movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be more careful, Mr. Frye,” she starts after a few minutes. There’s no reproach in her voice, only concern. She expects him to laugh and wave away her concerns, as he always does, but he gives a noncommittal hum. When she looks up at him for half a second in between stitches, she sees that his eyes are closed. He almost seems asleep. Looking at him like this, she can’t help but notice how tired he looks. Something twists inside her again - concern, sadness, fear? She can’t quite put a name on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always rushing in,” she continues in a whisper, as if for herself. “Never stopping to think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time he does laugh, a faint chuckle that has her looking up at him again - there’s a small smile on his lips, and his eyes crack open to meet hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound like my sister,” he sighs, half-mocking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then perhaps you will accept that Ms. Frye may have a point?” she shoots back, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes again, though he’s still smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I can’t do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, both in amusement and disbelief, and silence settles over the train once more as she resumes her work. The stitches are finished before long, and she makes quick work of the bandages, dressing his wound with an expert hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Done,” she finally says after a while, stepping away from him. She sees him stand carefully, hissing in discomfort as he straightens to his full height.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have to rest for a few days, Mr. Frye,” she says as he shrugs his coat back on with a grunt before gathering the rest of his torn clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She expects protests and jokes, but instead she gets a smile, and there’s a spark in his eyes when he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long as you don’t tell Evie,” he says, conspiratorially, putting his hat back on his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinks in surprise, staring at him for a few seconds before she feels herself smile, extending her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe that’s fair,” she says, and he laughs as he reaches out to shake her hand, holding it for what feels like a few moments more than necessary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll bid you goodnight, then,” he says when he lets go of her hand, flashing her one last roguish smile with a tip of his hat before he turns away to make his way toward his quarters at the front of the train. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” she replies, even as the warmth of his hand lingers on hers, and she smiles at nothing.</span>
</p>
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